Living in nightmare
by msmhtp
Summary: John is gone and Sherlock is waiting when he gets some bad news. Small sequel to the story There still is nightmares. T for reasons. Angst but also fluff. Nothing too graphic. Johnlock.
1. Waiting

_Small sequel to __**There is still nightmares.**_

_First chap now beta by LozzaBlueBell x_

_Thank you x_

_#_

_'He's been gone too long,' _was the only thought that entered the detective's mind. Sherlock scanned the opposite chair, eagerly waiting for its owner to come back.

Was this what John felt when he had been away? No; John thought he was dead. He never actually waited for his friend to come back.

But it was similar. The waiting.

Sherlock closed his eyes, raised his bow and let the music, full of sadness, fill the air.

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson listened, her eyes wandering to the picture of herself, John and Sherlock smiling together. It was taken just before he'd left. Younger days, it felt.

Her finger taped John's head.

"Hurry, my boy, or he will come after you."

She heard the outer door open, and she rose and hurried to see what it was – or who it was. Oh, she hoped. Hoped so much.

Mycroft.

One glance and Mrs Hudson knew.

She followed the silent man up the stairs, to the flat, but she couldn't step inside.

Bad news.

The music stopped.

There was a long silence, where Mycroft tried to find some words, but couldn't.

"No..." Sherlock whispered, and Mrs Hudson leaned heavily on the door frame and felt the tears slowly trail down her pale face.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"He promised... He promised that he would come back." His voice was broken. So broken that it hurt to listen.

"There was an attack. Everyone was killed. Everybody was... burned." Mycroft tried to stay strong, only for his brother's sake.

At the same time as Mrs Hudson, who started to cry openly, Sherlock slumped to his knees and wanted to cry with her. He couldn't breathe though, let alone cry.

"Sherlock, calm down," Mycroft's distant voice tried to tell him. "You have to breathe. Sherlock!"

But he couldn't.

His mind screamed, but he couldn't breathe.

"J–ohn..." he begged, before the darkness engulfed him.


	2. Living in palace

_This will be betaed._

#

It's nice place. Quiet, white rooms, big garden, high walls, big windows, no guards, no drugs or any medicines, just the sisterhood keeping everything running. Keeping eyes in everything. And everyone.

Mycroft had acted fast after the funeral, being afraid that Sherlock could be back to his bad habits.

And Sherlock had found the place being just perfect when he actually let himself out of his mind palace.

He didn't do that often. It hurt to be in a real world where was no John.

_John._

In his mind palace was a room, room just like the Baker Street's flat and the living room. And the chair.

And John.

John was always there. Reading or tapping his laptop. Or fallen asleep, snoring lightly. Watching him when he explained something, not always fully understanding. How John always let his every emotion to come out, how they reflected from his face.

Those were the nice times.

Then there were those times when they run through the city, chasing someone.

How John shot, without hesitation, saving lives. How John was being stabbed or shot or hit.

Long nights in A&E waiting John. Or John waiting him.

Those cruel crime scenes and the lights of the police cars and ambulances.

The thrill.

The action.

The fear.

Trusting each others.

Time before Moriarty's trap.

And the night before John had left, leaving him behind. Promising to be back after four months.

John had volunteered. He knew the place, the people, the nation, the language, the situation. He was perfect being there in actual war zone.

Or behind it.

But it had gone wrong.

And Sherlock hated it.

Hated the though John being killed there, when he had once survived.

"He was here two months when you were gone." Mycroft had said before Sherlock had blocked him out.

Sherlock hated the though that John had been there too.

And he tried to delete it all.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't.

And he hated it.


	3. Under those stars

He wakes up screaming.

It's burning.

He's on his stomach and tries to got up but can't, he's too weak.

And there's a voice, woman's calming voice.

"I promised… I promised…" He whispers, not truly remembering what he promised.

The voice calms him.

And the pain is gone for a moment.

And he sleeps again until he wakes again.

Screaming.

#

It isn't so bad after all.

The skin in his back is scared now, and painful, but he can move again.

He asks where he is, what happened?

And slowly he remembers.

And he remembers his promise.

He remembers his friend, waiting him.

And when he asks can they help him, they help.

He helped them and now is their turn.

But he can't remember everything yet.

And he's careful how to act, because something is wrong. He shouldn't be alive. They aimed him after all. Because of him and Sherlock, more is dead there.

And he tries to remember the name when he walks through the deserted land, thinking what went wrong.

The name of the man who tortured him and left him die there under those beautiful stars.


	4. Hoping

There are no visiting hours. The only ones who can enter there are some family members of patients. Two at time.

One oddly warm late autumn evening, six month after John's funeral when they sit in garden. There isn't much light and it feels good, being there in dark.

"How long? If ever?" Lestrade asks and Mycroft is still, like a ghost sitting beside him.

"John was his anchor." Is his answer. Answer to every questions.

"I still hope, you know. I still hope." Lestrade leans forward, rubbing his face tiredly.

"About what?"

"That he comes back. That another empty chest will be just another empty chest."

Mycroft looks the detective and nods. "Somehow… I hope too. Because of Sherlock." But that hope is very small.

"He doesn't hope anymore."

"No."

"Then we have to hope for his sake because this will kill him."

"Yes."

It's hard to accept. They are older than those men and watching them die slowly was terrible thing to see. It wasn't meant to happen. Not to them. Lestrade was always though, well, maybe after the day when Sherlock returned, that those men should grow old and die old.

"I think…" Lestrade is up, stretching his limps and he feels the sudden coldness in air. "I go say my goodbye and then we can go."

Mycroft nods, watching the night and think when is his turn to die. When he'll give up the hope. He's tired and he knows that if Sherlock go before him, he can't go anymore. It doesn't feel right to be there without his younger brother.

Sentiments.

He buries his face to his hands and is verge to cry, but then he hears something what makes him alarmed. When he raised his face he saw the movements near the wall in the shadows and he pick up his phone to call Anthea.


	5. Hand that holds the gun

It was those rare days that Sherlock was vaguely aware of his surroundings. He noticed that there was one or two person with him sometime around the day. He noticed the night nurse check him. But he didn't care. He sat there, trying to get himself back to his mind palace, but something was keeping him still in the living world. For a moment he actually though that he could step over that thin line and see why he couldn't go back to where he belonged.

He hadn't felt this kind of curiosity in long time toward the living world. But then he remembers,

_John isn't there anymore._

And he is back travelling fast far away as he can. But before he's too far, he hears something.

A click.

Something cold pressed the back of his head.

A gun.

He blinked his eyes, let the dim light brighten his world again. He restrained himself to not move.

"Never though that I would find you like this. But it doesn't matter. I got some fun with John and it seems that you took that bit too hard way."

Those words went through the Sherlock's fuzzy mind, waking him suddenly to reality.

_John. _

Slowly Sherlock turned and stared the man now fully aware what was going on.

"You killed him."

The man holding his gun grinned.

"And now you are back. Good." His face twisted suddenly and Sherlock could see the burning anger. "You took everything from me."

"And you took everything from others. How many you have killed by now? Ten? No, more I can imagine. And you killed John."

"I left him there after I got everything what I wanted. I let him there to die, let them all die."

The man was mad, there was no doubt about that and his finger on the trigger was too sensitive so that Sherlock would have been able to do anything. He knew that he was watching the death direct in the eye.

"Let it go. I do not have anything here anymore. Allow me to go to John." Sherlock sighed.

Eyes narrowed, and the hand that was holding the gun hesitated. Sherlock acted and rushed forward. A shot in a small room made his ears ring and they fell to the floor.

* * *

_One chap to go, I hope its up today or tomorrow at least. There is going to be beta to correct my English_.


	6. Being back

_Alright, I ended to do Johnlock-end to this._

#

He waited pain to hit but it never came. Instead he saw blood what spread on the floor under them. The man was dead.

"Never expected him being alive." Someone said and Sherlock looked up and saw John standing on the doorway with smoking gun and Lestrade hovering behind of him.

"My mistake." Sherlock said and John offered the gun back to its owner and walked to help Sherlock up. He offered his hand but Sherlock hesitate.

"You're real."

"Yes."

"You're alive."

"Yes, but, again, it was a close call."

And Sherlock took the hand and next he was wrapped his hands around John, holding his friend, his face buried to his neck.

"You never leave again John." He whispered, crying silently.

"No, I don't." John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder feeling suddenly very tired. After he had left, heading back home, he had called every favour what he had been able to call. He hadn't slept much and his back was in pain.

"It was a nightmare, living nightmare when you weren't here." Sherlock sighed noticing that John, even that he wanted to be close Sherlock he tensed the touch. John was hurt, badly, so Sherlock retreated but didn't let go. John eyed him.

"Sorry it took so long to be back."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not your fault John. Never your fault. You're back. And you never go again. Promise."

"I promise." John swept the strand of hair away from the face and gently, very gently, he drew Sherlock's face closer and kissed him at last.


End file.
